Belly of Sin

He's lying there, stripped down to his underwear, and I'm using his stomach like a filthy dish. In his navel — crushed strawberries, juicy like sin that just burst open. On top — thick, heavy sour cream, slowly melting over his skin. I take a spoon and scoop the messy mixture right out of his bellybutton, smearing it across his abs. Everything sticks. Everything drips. Sweet juice runs into the creases, sour cream clings to the muscles. No plates. No table. Just a body — and pure lust. This dessert isn't served — it's played with.